When Dawg sleeps, he’s dead to the world. No, really. I often find myself checking to make certain he’s still breathing. Of course, I could just do it the easy way: step into the kitchen and touch anything food related. At that point all I have to do is look around to know my dog is alive because he’ll be sitting at the entry point to the kitchen (where I’ve trained him to wait when I prepare his meals). Not sleepy, not yawning, nothing. Sitting there like a statue with only his head moving as it follows my every movement. His brain, at that point, is willing me to drop something, because he’s decided that anything that touches the floor is his.

I’ve tried repeatedly to catch him in the act of moving from the bed to the kitchen, and it just doesn’t happen. Or, I guess I should say, it doesn’t happen in perceivable time. As Sherlock Holmes once said, “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” So the improbable but undisputable fact is, my dog teleports.

Noise isn’t a factor in alerting him. I once picked up a marshmallow that was sitting on the stove top (I’d made hot chocolate the night before and got sloppy). Foomph! I could feel the air displacement. There he was, sitting beside me, watching.

I wish he’d teach me how he does that. I hate my drive to the office and back. Maybe if I held him real tight and told him there are cheese doodles under my desk at work — maybe I’d transport with him?

What the heck. It’s worth a shot. I’ll let you know…

Later: Well, it didn’t work. I guess I weigh too much. We only got halfway there…